The motor car is always a thing of darkness, In the sun and lighted roads of day And in the luminous gas at night though 

I frolic and burrow myself inside the vastness of the fields And the prairies that stand tall Of spaces heavily concentrated, and then stretched out to infinity

Clouds in heaven bow and billow around your feet, and you- glide through, oblivious to their ethereal presence.

The theocracy is crumbling in its seat

Nothing is meaningless if speech and silence  fill void, flowing in the same force, and no one blocks the road to dreaming.

I tried to be renamed in the middle  But my van and I have never been apart!

I see you, with whatever half awake, sleep drifting irises, I see you. Dusted in the shelves of unread books, I see you and I know you, They will never know you but I do, in ways you are afraid.

her heart was a two seater unfit for a family so big i grew to be a woman mirrored in her shadow when she was younger

you spend what you make to make what you spend, and you do it today to do it all over again

Over the last 30 years, he has received multiple national and international literary awards for his work. He is, currently, the vice-president of PEN International, Bangladesh chapter. 

Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light

Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–

The fact of the matter was this: the poem had been written, the call had been answered, and as lofty as it sounds—at that moment there I was, as Frank O'Hara put aptly—"the center of all beauty! / writing these poems!/ Imagine!".

We grasp on and we hold tight.

try my best to paint the place blue Pouring all the sorrow after you With no colour left in my palette, As though the canvas breathes its last

Spirit breaks at home along with love mingled with innocence.

Dissipated, my thoughts wander finally taking refuge in sleep.

I am a god when I am asleep, I am found to be inside the shimmer of water as it fights against the brilliance of the screams that emanate from the sky

Martyrs and-slash-or heroes they call us Is it worth all the fuss? While they celebrate We ache to recuperate

Neeldhaja is the first Bangla poem to be written in the form of a letter; it places a female figure with a rebellious demeanor as the protagonist of a historical narrative.